Granny's Wooden Box

She left behind a wooden box, filled with recipes.
Handed down to Mother, now handed down to me.
Granny shared her secrets, only when her will was read,
Stating they belonged to Mother, until she too was dead.

Only then would I inherit, Granny’s scribbled notes.
Locked inside a wooden box, her cooking antidotes.
Measurements created, written in my Granny’s hand.
So foreign were her phrases, words I didn’t understand.

A dab of this, a hint of that, a pinch or two of thyme,
A tiny snippet, a dollop or so, a boggled rookie's mind.
A touch, a dash, a little bit, a smidgen and to taste,
Granny never mention, on just whose taste it was based.

Exploring through my wooden box of Granny’s recipes,
Scraps of folded paper, weak and withered in the crease.
Old wallpaper, a grocery sack, used cards and envelopes,
Some with lovely writing, aback where Granny wrote.

A time capsule of history, this little wooden box,
Memoirs of another day, behind my Granny’s jots.
A wooden box of puzzles, Granny’s gift of mystery,
In little pieces of her life, beneath her recipes.

COPYRIGHT©2005 BONNIE TORRENTE